The face changed shape, flesh growing purple, until the mimeographed image of Lanyard Everett hung before Jenny, the shabby villain looming larger, his cold eyes boring straight into her soul.
The face drew closer as it seemed to grow, until she felt like a gnat, paused before a gnashing wall of teeth. The whisper was strong now, the volume reaching the sound of a normal voice.
“Take up the Cruik, girl. Ride in my name. You sniff out this Jesusman, and you kill him.”
— 8 —
I’m taking up the Cruik,” Jenny repeated. Her father was still shaking his head, fat jowls wobbling. “Then I’m hunting down this Jesusman.”
“Absolutely not! You would ride out on the strength of a-a hallucination?”
“It was Papa Lucy,” she said, eyes shining fervently. “He spoke to me, told me that this will cure you. I must go.”
“The Cruik stays here,” the old man protested. “The Riders lost their way, a long time ago. Cannibals, bandits, and now you? I forbid this.”
“I’ll be back with this monster’s head, or not at all.”
“You don’t know the first thing about that world, girl,” he said. “You’ll be peeled and cooking in a greypot within a week. Let my men find this Lanyard. I’ll send everyone off on Quentin’s damned crusade, but please, you stay here with me.”
The Selector looked helplessly at Jenny, who was dressed in travelling gear of thick leathers and stout boots with a sleek pistol dangling from her hip. She weathered his protests with a stony face.
“I’ll have the bailiffs stop you.” He gasped. “Your place is here. I don’t have long, and Mawson needs you. Jen, I need you.”
“You’re the Selector. So select someone else,” she said softly and withdrew from the solar.
“This is madness. I’ll cut you off. You’ll have nothing!” he cried. She flinched as she gently closed the doors behind her. She knew he would make good on his threats with the bailiffs and knew that the Over-Bailiff would hunt her himself.
In the garage underneath the Tower, her father had collected a small fleet of cars. The machines were cobbled into working order by the tinkermen. Most had been built from the combined remains of several vehicles.
Her favourite buggy was down here, a stripped down affair, more wood than steel, lightweight. She loaded canisters of fuel into the trunk, food and water, a box of precious ammunition she’d pilfered from the bailiff’s armoury.
She strapped a rifle to the dashboard. It was a working .303 that would put a hole through anything. Jenny was out the front, frantically hand-cranking the engine, when a shadow fell across her.
She turned to see a relaxed-looking Ronnald. The buggy was completely surrounded by armed lawmen. One of the men kicked the chocks back under the wheels. Another young bailiff climbed into the car, turned the steering wheel towards the wall, and pressed down on the brakes.
“Jen, don’t be foolish,” Ronnald said, reaching for her. She quickly drew her pistol and aimed it at his chest. She had kept the chrome plating buffed into a shine, and now in the dim light of the lone gas lamp it shone.
“Pretty gun,” he said. Quicker than thought, the lawman turned into her aim and twisted the pistol out of her hands.
“Now, your father would like a word,” the Over-Bailiff said. Jenny darted forward and felled the lawman with a swift knee to the crotch. Slipping through a ring of reaching hands, she made for the outer doors of the garage, running light and fast.
One of the bailiffs had his gun out and tracking, but the gasping Ronnald howled for him to stop.
“We’re not meant to kill her, you idiots,” he said, still wincing. He set his men to unpacking the car, marvelling at how much she had looted from the Tower.
“Don’t worry, she won’t get far now,” he said, rubbing at his long moustache. “That silly girl will be home in time for tea, mark my words.”
Jenny ran through the morning streets, cursing her own stupidity. Once, she heard the sputtering of a bike and hid inside a coal box, fighting the urge to sneeze.
I should have just left Father a note, she thought. I could have been halfway to Crosspoint by now. You idiot, Jen!
She took a circuitous route through Mawson to avoid the main thoroughfares and market squares. Ronnald would have people out looking for her now and watching the caravanserai and the harbour. She’d never be able to leave the town on foot.
Jenny had only the clothes on her back and the determination of her quest. A god had spoken to her. She had always been Papa Lucy’s instrument, ever since she sat in his mirror chair.
A handful of bailiffs won’t stop me, she thought.
Hungry and footsore, Jenny padded towards the Selector’s Orchard. Rounding the corner, she was nearly spotted by a lone bailiff sitting on a motorcycle in front of the locked gates.
Nice try, Ronnald, she thought. She took off her leather coat and draped it over the high wall. The mortar was embedded with broken glass to deter intruders, but despite Jenny’s best efforts she still managed to cut her hands.
She quietly dropped to the ground. Slipping from tree to tree, she kept a look out for any other guards. Judging by the smoking chimney at the gateman’s hut, everyone was still at their breakfast. Snagging a low-lying apple, Jenny munched on its woody flesh as she stole through the trees.
There. In the middle of the orchard lay a small cluster of buildings, a bird yard converted to another purpose. There were fodder sheds, a fenced-in exercise yard, and beyond that a block of newly raised stables.
A small hut stood just behind all of this. Jenny saw the curl of smoke in the chimney and heard the faint snores from within. She rapped on the door, rousing the occupant.
Barris was the stablehand, an old birdman with the scars to prove it. Cracking open the door, he blinked at her blearily. He stank of booze.
“Young Jen,” he rasped. “Bit early for a ride, isn’t it?”
“Good a time as any,” she said calmly. He doesn’t know. “Come on, let’s get him saddled up then.”
Barris led Jenny to the stables, a leather bridle dangling from one hand. He whistled through his teeth and out of the stall bounced the rarest of all creatures—a young horse, perfect and healthy.
“Melts my heart every time,” the stablehand said. “There won’t be any more after him, more’s the shame.”
Seph. The last of the true horses, and her father’s greatest treasure. If a foal lived these days, it came out feathered and fanged, and most of these mutant half-breeds died before their first year.
Seph was the final example of the horse-breeder’s art, his dam and sire now dead from grazing on pattercurse. The breeders at True Horse Plain had not let Seph go cheaply, but Horace Rider paid the price gladly.
He also surrounded the world’s last horse with these high walls, every gate guarded by an armed man. Barris might be a hapless drunk, but he didn’t need to be vigilant, not in the middle of all that.
“Here you go,” he said as he led the saddled horse to the girl. “Put your foot in there like I showed you and just swing your other leg over.”
Jenny hoisted herself up into Seph’s newly stitched saddle and smiled. The horse smelled good. It quivered underneath her, a warm machine of muscles and hair.
“Do you have a sack or something?” she asked Barris. “I feel like going fruit-picking while I ride him around.”
“Should have one in the shack,” he said. He rooted around in the rubbish and empty bottles until he produced a hessian bag. She took it from him with a smile, then kicked Seph into a gentle trot, pleased with how quickly she’d learnt the dying art of horse riding over the last few months.
She paused underneath the apple trees to pluck several of the stunted fruit. No matter how they tried, no one could grow them right anymore, and orchards everywhere were failing. In recent years, they were lucky if one in three apples grew to full size.
Good enough for me, she thought as she quickly filled the bottom third of the sa
ck. She rode to the far gate, the one that led out onto the Temple road. The rhythm of Seph’s pounding hooves roused the guard. Stretching lazily, he emerged from his hut to watch the horse at play. She realised that the bailiffs hadn’t yet reached this side of the Orchard.
“Morning, Miss Rider,” the man said, smiling as Jenny trotted the horse towards him. The smile became a panicked grimace as Seph bore down on him, a tonne of muscle. As he dodged to get out of the way Jenny swung the bag of apples. The sack connected with a satisfying crunch, and the man fell senseless to the ground.
Climbing down from the saddle, she checked the man’s pulse. He was alive but battered. He wore the key to the gate on a chain around his neck and kept a snub-nosed revolver in his coat pocket, an old bleedthrough spotted with rust. She took the gun, not even knowing if it worked, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
Jenny unlocked the gate and rode Seph through it at a swift canter. People in the streets of Mawson stared as she clattered past them on the near-extinct animal. Seph’s custom-built shoes rang against the cobble stones. Jenny smiled, weaving through the morning trickle of merchants and the last of the evening shit carts.
A brace of hitched riding birds flapped themselves into a mad panic when they saw the horse heading towards them. One of them snapped free of its harness, swearing in a booming voice, lashing out with its legs, and busting up a grog stall as it escaped.
A stumpy lizard snapped hungrily at the horse, and it was Seph’s turn to shy away, nearly throwing Jenny from the saddle as he bucked and danced sideways. People cursed her, and the distant sound of a whining motor was joined by another.
Bikes. She didn’t think she could stand out more if she tried. No doubt someone had flagged down a passing bailiff and pointed them in her direction. Not even the Selector’s daughter had the right to take the last true horse out of the Orchard.
Not sure what horse thieves get these days, she thought, rubbing her throat nervously.
No traffic covered Temple Road so early in the day, and she made better time. Urging the horse up the steep incline, Jenny looked back to see the first whining bike emerge from the tight streets of Mawson. A trio of bailiffs dogged her path up the hill.
“C’mon, boy,” she said as she dug her heels into Seph’s flanks, the way Barris had shown her. The horse responded with a surge of speed, eagerly leaping up the road, strong and sure.
Jenny risked a glance backwards and saw that the nearest bike was halfway up the road. One of the bikes was rolling backwards, black smoke boiling up from its failed engine. Two bailiffs left.
“Quickly, Seph,” she urged, shaking the reins. This was the first time she attempted a gallop, and she slid around in the saddle like a sack of rivermud. She gripped tightly with her knees, scared that she was going to fall off.
The Temple was before her now and she made for the broad marble steps. A terrified woman who was sweeping away the rubbish from last night’s congregation froze at Jenny’s approach. Seph climbed the stairs, and the cleaner squeezed her eyes tight, clutching her broom as the horse brushed past her.
Seph walked into the Temple through the large double doors, his sides heaving, slick with sweat. The sound of his hooves rattling against the flagstones echoed from the painted dome. Jenny dug the pistol out of her pocket and gripped the plastic handle tightly.
Jen, you’re being really stupid, she thought. But she remembered her vision, and knew she had no choice. When the first priest came running to investigate the noise, she levelled the weapon on the man. The hefty Berthite stopped short and raised a pair of trembling hands.
“Take me to the Cruik. Now,” she demanded. Hearing a footfall, she turned to see the cleaner lurking just outside the doors. “You. Close those doors and bar them. Quickly, please.”
She clumsily dismounted and led Seph around the killing pit on foot. She pointed the gun towards anyone who looked at her. Acolytes and attendants hid behind statuary and stared with fear and confusion as the Selector’s daughter took the Temple hostage. Jenny paused to let the horse guzzle greedily from a baptismal font. She looked up nervously as the bailiffs started pounding on the outer doors demanding entry.
“If anyone touches that door, I will shoot them dead,” she yelled, brandishing the revolver as if she meant it. I’ve never even fired a gun in anger, she thought. Jen, you’ve lost your bloody mind.
Once Seph had drunk his fill, she prodded the Berthite priest towards the inner sanctum. There was a crashing sound, and she realised that the bailiffs had given up on the main doors and were trying to force their way in through the vestry.
The inner sanctum of the Family lay almost directly underneath the highest point of the dome, an open-roofed structure the size of a large villa. As Jenny led Seph inside, her guts did a nervous dance as the Eminent Three emerged from their apartments.
The high priests didn’t need masks to be intimidating, and Jenny realised just how much trouble she was in now. She herded the earthly equivalents of Lucy, Bertha, and the Boneman into a ragged line.
“Bar the doors,” she ordered one of the acolytes. “Put statues and heavy things in front of them. Hurry.”
“Miss Rider, you are being incredibly foolish,” said one of the Eminents, a hawk-faced woman in the black and white of the Boneman. “The penalty for trespassing here is death.”
“Shut up,” she said. “I’m here for the Cruik.”
A noise, and she turned to see the High Flenser rushing her, long curved knives in each hand, open robe flapping. Jenny brought the pistol to bear. As she drew the trigger, she observed the maze of scars across the High Flenser’s face and body, the sash of knives that bounced upon his chest as he ran.
Then, the crack of the gun, and Papa Lucy’s holy skinner lay sprawled at her feet, his knives still reaching for her as he breathed his last.
I’ll hang for that, she thought, numbed by what she’d done, pistol shaking in her hand. The holy knifeman wasn’t moving. Then Jenny remembered Papa Lucy, the promise of her father’s recovery and what her god demanded of her.
Standing over the dead High Flenser, she once more demanded the Cruik. This time, no one questioned her. She followed the Eminents to the centre of the sanctum that presented a stout door with three keyholes. Each of them brought out a key from underneath their robes and broke the final seal.
“It’s here,” they told her. She led the horse into a large reliquary, its walls lined with treasures—the confirmed belongings of the Family—and some good old-fashioned loot.
The far wall was decorated with a frieze depicting the Family at Sad Plain. Lucy cradled the mortally wounded Boneman. Bertha was strangling some nameless Jesusman with her braid. A fourth prominent figure on the far left had been defaced, chiselled back into rough stone, but enough details remained to show this was Leicester-We-Forget.
One of Papa Lucy’s hands extended from the frieze, held out as if warding off some unseen enemy far to the right of the scene. His stone grip curled around an ancient staff of wood, bound with brass, the hooked pole of a shepherd. The Cruik, holiest relic that the Temple of Mawson possessed.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered.
Seph chose that moment to drop a load of dung, followed with a heroic stream of piss that flooded the floor. Smiling, Jenny fastened his reins to a willowy nude of the Lady Bertha, then turned her attention to the staff of Papa Lucy.
She leaned forward and twisted the stave loose, snapping several of Papa Lucy’s stone fingers. Holding the Cruik high, she felt her skin crawl and the sense that something was watching her. It was greasy to the touch, as if the wood were pliable. It felt as heavy as an iron rod, even though she lifted it with ease.
This wasn’t a replica. In her hands, Jenny held the evidence of a god, and this scared her.
Nearby, she heard the banging as the bailiffs tried to force the sanctum doors. She ordered the Eminent Lucy to strap the Cruik to Seph’s saddle, then looked around the reliquary, poking at the floor and t
esting the walls.
“You,” she asked the red-robed Eminent Bertha. “Where’s the way out?”
“The–the door back there,” the priestess stammered. She licked her lips nervously as Jenny poked her in the belly with the barrel of the gun.
“Try again. My father told me that this hill is riddled with tunnels, hidey holes that you’ve had hundreds of years to dig. I want the secret way out of here, and I want it now. Do you want to end up like the flenser?”
The priestess shook her head.
“Well, open the damn hatch. Then get out of my way.”
— 9 —
Seph ate up the miles, legs flashing as he tore across the open road. The horse seemed to relish the chance to stretch its legs, and once more Jenny was grateful for the tunnels and catacombs, high walled and wide enough for the animal to escape the Family Temple with her.
“I could never have left you back there,” she said, patting the horse’s neck. “You’re not meant to be hidden behind a wall.”
The hoofed animal was much faster than a bird and much easier to ride. She tried to remember everything that Barris had shown her, and rode Seph for only short stretches, dismounting and walking him frequently.
Mawson lay a half day behind her, but it might as well be a world away. If she didn’t come back with the head of Lanyard Everett, she would never be able to return.
“I had to kill that man, Seph,” she said quietly. She walked him into a sprouting seed crop to graze. “I didn’t want to, but I had to.”
The horse’s reply was to rip voraciously into the green shoots. A great line of hoofprints and destruction trailed through the river-fed farm.
Jenny owned nothing but the clothes on her back, the gun in her pocket, and the Cruik, the creepy relic strapped to the side of the saddle like a catch-pole. There’d been no time to scrounge for supplies or even grab some coin, not with Ronnald’s men on her heels and a holy man dead by her hand.
Papa Lucy & the Boneman Page 11